July 17th
by Tatteredcover
Summary: Black recalls actions of life in the embassy and the meaning settled behind the date of July 17th that lead onto devistation and an unwelcomed understanding of himself and his relationship with White
1. Chapter 1

For many devastating days and horrendous nights where my blood was spread by those careless hands did I view him, did I view it as nothing more than a target to be shot down, dismembered, eradicated without a seconds delay just to feel the satisfaction in knowing that I in that instant dripping in the cooling warmth of his-of its' blood that I had the upper hand. That I was just that good. And for him, for him I doubt that he could view me in any other lighting. We were like some wicked, sickening experiment gone so deadly right. We as the few and yet counless others were given a version of eternal life to match that inmortal soul that God had given us, the catch being that we had demigod power only in the solitude of a modified land created for us and the wastes we were. They told us how to live there, how to act, and if we wanted to keep the benefits of life, wealth, and shelter we would follow each order as best we could for they whispered that they could find others and never seemed to. We learned to profile others on the spot if they appeared in a different color, even those that matched the supposed safe hue considered ours were labeled as a danger for those quick glance of eyes would be smiling silently over your decaying body.

When we were introduced, him, White, and I, Black went for death, for the throat, for any arteries that would draw the most blood. We were equally matched as we gripped onto life fading farther into the darkness of night, me grabbing my splurting neck snatching dizzy looka at the maroon asshole already on the floor hacking what little was left of his life.

Since then we have found any chance, any small glimpse to lose controll, to fall onto animal instinct and attack, as times I gain that almosy sexual psychotic satisfaction in seeing that limp body dead choking on his own blood now turned to a worthless corpse foolish, idiotic enough to think he could have a chance against me. Nonetheless that would be changed and I would be the fool, I would be the one to fall into the traps of believing I had won, that I had beaten the imbecile, winning the secrets that 'they' wanted, only to have it blow up in my face spreading shards of me everywhere within a mile radius. It was for the time being fun. It was work and was what we were paid for. As long as we followed along and didnt make more of a fuss than we needed to a house was provided for us, food was given at our demand, and clothing, necessities, silly materialistic things given as well with no other worry unless if you were to be killed at any second of any days without warning.

Dying was still painful, a great agonizing pain, thay lasted until you died, the one thing that you prayed for, that was, when your rival got a hold of you wasn't to live but to die, that they had an ill enough heart to kill you fully instead of leaving you there gasping, begging, almost whinning for death, wishing you have a weapon on your person to finish the job they devlishly enough planned not to do. We were crul at time to one another and even cruler than mentioned. That was the way things worked, the way the rirver on this side flowed.

I thought that he was only a bastard. Looking back I still find him no better than a piece of trash, but when July rolled in, when guns flarred in the part of the world that wasn't ours, in that midnight walk with the on and off going rain did 'they' know the limit of what they had created, and did we know our own. For the smallest amount of time I didn't see that fucker through a film of ugly red, it had effected us that awful day and leaves us silent for different reasons.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been raining. Maybe that's why I'm thinking about July, about 17. There's a half smoked cigarette trying to burn away at my table, a mug holds irish coffee I traded in for the bottle. I'm ashamed to say that I'm not alone. I was never a family man, that wasn't my sort of I guess it wasn't anyone's thing when your parents get killed, when you wished their charred bodies were beaten as badly as they bruised yours. On the mantel of the isolated home I keep a constant decoration a framed picture moving with me. I was young there, when I joined in, here in these walls of fowl mouth traitors I found family. They weren't involved with the our field activities, they handed out Xeroxed papers labeled with information we followed and ended with explosives shoved through hollowed out corpses called our targets. Some of those bodies came back, some stay checked into that worm filled resort.  
Originally it was set that no one would die for good, originally it was set that the God defying medicine would be revolutionary, originally it was just another assumption on assurance to make big money a reality to those whose moral rights died under neglect.  
At first arrival we didn't know any of that, we didn't even know each other, they called our names for the first and final time before assigning us another. We without hesitation were knocked into a chair, strapped down only to hear a whisper that this wasn't the worst part. My world faded twice that evening, daily I wish that the first black out would have killed me, it did others. It did many others. I wouldn't have minded dying to the sound of all those screams, I can't remember the pain, the visuals at this point are only a cubic blur of that jagged needle plunging into slit wrists pumping a dose of squirming, dancing black ooze.  
The world entered as it had faded in what seemed to be years ago. Every inch of me burned at the movement of my heartbeat. There I tried to recall what I had signed for if this was all hidden in the fine print I hadn't cared to read. Laced with an internal sunburnt sensation I found myself alone, the man, the chair, the straps, the needle, the ooze, all gone and ghostly touching my chilled skin. The room was lit by flickering white lights humming hard rings into my ears muffled only at a whisper tainted by static. This was the worst part it called out, people of unknown gender walked in from hell knows where tightly dressed it black matching attire, the humming stayed, the walls echoed out my teenage cracked screams of agonizing trauma. For the while my mind couldn't decide what was most frightening, the inevitability that I was going to die or feeling each and every puncture wound. The humming stayed, but it faded, it left either when the steel toed boot bashed into my skull, the curved dagger slammed to the hilt against my left lung, or when oversized hands made my knee bend the other way. At that time I don't know how many more died, I of course was not among them, I looked back and think if someone had died they would have killed all of us. I wish they did, the inferno I am decaying in was further rotten by every day I continue this unwanted life, loss is a bad thing and grief can kill a man, but living on like a circus mouse is my toxic slip of insanity, immeasurable, inescapable no matter how we try. I sometimes believe that with enough stomach curdling hope and time I could made a difference, but we were not like the others, not then, not now, not ever.  
I thought I died. It was the sweetest lie I ever fooled myself to believe. That gunk they placed in us was a treatment, we guinea pigs were given eternal life they told us when we awoke. If questioned they offered a demonstration. Throughout the blood splattered walls their ivory teeth never hid, it was bizarre breakthrough. We were trained, we were death in human form, each one of sick by the job that dulled into acceptance. I was 14. The attachment began with my still to date father figure Silver, he was keen in business and medicine, any non severe wounds closed, healed, it might still kill you but not by infection. He's saved the soulless life of mine countless times.  
We were allowed outside these walls when we began, unbounded did they assume we were. The ones that disappeared were labeled as traitors fleeing from promise rather than corpses. I was given a home by that man, I was fed and fucked over once that sadly was for my own good. He was married to a girl that did the same, I fell in love with them growing into a bond lasting 4 years. She joined for our happiness despite the knowledge of her slit wrists and beating she wanted to be closer, she got real sick but shorthanded the men behind all this gave her a desk job aiding in production of that gunk, they were planning to go national. She fought it and won. It was May when she did. By then there was paranoia in the air news had gotten out, and we had moved into a small territorial expansion created by them. We weren't allowed to leave. We'd die out there they told us, but by then the idea of eternal life was still a honeymoon dream. There were complications happening with those men some of their morals weren't completely withered.  
July 17h was to be normal, the impact of that date didn't hit until the next day, my and his incident came a year later.


End file.
